


Confrontation

by BlueEyedArcher



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Choices, Decisions, Fate & Destiny, Jekyll and Hyde, M/M, Major Character Injury, Multiple Personalities, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Self-Hatred, Self-Reflection, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-19 11:40:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22710259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueEyedArcher/pseuds/BlueEyedArcher
Summary: Jaskier's secret was one he didn't think would ever reach the light of day. It wasn't something he could share with close confidants or regard with closely guarded words. He couldn't vaguely sing a ballad about it to ease his burdens and have patrons and listeners brush it off as some wild metaphor for some other experience. He was afraid of the speculation that would entail, and more precisely, the outcome should Geralt discover the truth.---------Jekyll and Hyde AU featuring Jaskier and Julian as two halves of the same person.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 19
Kudos: 172





	Confrontation

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a reference to the Jekyll and Hyde musical and the specified song. 
> 
> I hope this is satisfactory. It turned out a lot longer than I anticipated so hopefully you all enjoy it!

Keeping secrets isn't necessarily an act of lying, Jaskier rationalized one day. It was a thought that he had pondered repeatedly over the past week. His guilt balanced precariously on a boundary line as he considered what exactly leads to the result of a lie. Does it involve a direct impulse or can it be an accidental occurrence that is brought about by a lack of information? Does one need to first be confronted with information for it to be a lie or would withholding information due to cleverly concealed and expertly twisted words meet the requirements for the aforementioned sin?

See, to Jaskier and presumably many other people in this big wonderful world they occupied temporarily, lying is a disgusting and vile act. There is nothing worse than a liar. It's an act of very intimate betrayal that can infect every facet of life and take on any form it desires. Because of that, it is obscene and ghastly and horrid.

But what strikes his curiosity is, what makes a lie a lie? What are the precursor requirements that judge an innocent act of modesty as something so insidious?

Jaskier is not a man interested in spewing lies, but carefully formulated stories on the other hand? Well, fantasy was an acceptable reasoning. His ballads offered creative freedom and exaggerated retellings of true events. Personally, his final thoughts on the substance that makes a lie something so vulgar and hideous, is that it must come first with pre-meditation. A lie must be established before being spoken. The liar at hand must do so with every intention of lying in the situation.

Given that reasoning, Jaskier was freed from the guilt and worries that transpired from his extensive ponderings over past transgressions. He had not lied, simply because he was not confronted with the subject at hand and Geralt had not inquired about it. It was a secret yes, but not a lie.

Secrets didn't riddle him with guilt or for him to lie awake at night, dreading the next morning with sickness clamping down on his insides, threatening to upend everything he had consumed the evening before into the bushes nearby. Secrets were just bits of information carefully tucked away for opportune moments when they would deal the biggest blow or have the most influential impact on the situation. Or, when trust was established.

Jaskier's secret was one he didn't think would ever reach the light of day. It wasn't something he could share with close confidants or regard with closely guarded words. He couldn't vaguely sing a ballad about it to ease his burdens and have patrons and listeners brush it off as some wild metaphor for some other experience. He was afraid of the speculation that would entail, and more precisely, the outcome should Geralt discover the truth. 

Would the Witcher see him as a grotesque monster and offer him mercy at the end of a blade? Would he consider using steel or silver when he cleaves Jaskier's head from his body? Would he mourn his death or leave his body to be devoured by necrophages? The bard was aware that there would be nobody to sing songs about him after it's all said and done. No heroic ballads for either of them left to drift in the warm ale houses and their jubilant halls. No poetic recount of his equally as poetic death. The Witcher would probably forget about the bard just as quickly, a thought that Jaskier didn't allow to hurt as much as it should. It was a fact of life.

Geralt kills monsters, that of the most cruel and violent kind. And Jaskier? Well, he was the worst of them all.

The bard was a realist at least. He understood that his days were numbered when the time comes when he will be forced to face the cold hard truth, and maybe even the icy bite of steel. On that day, he will be certain to face Geralt eye to eye and never turn away. He may be afraid, he may feel hurt, but he wouldn't have it any other way were that to be his end. It's a personal preference even. At least, he hoped that when the time comes, Geralt knows who the _real_ Jaskier was when he grants him a merciful and swift death.

It was a morbid thought that Jaskier had entertained one too many times, he concluded. Because at the current moment, Geralt was scowling in his direction with that look that silently said he knew something was up with the bard. Jaskier plastered on a disarming smile and tossed it in his direction, a fleeting look as he busied himself with his lute, adjusting the strap for the fourth time and realizing he had spent far too long with his fingers hovering over the strings as silence stretched since the end of his last song quite some time ago.

He hadn't realized he had drifted for so long and now wasn't surprised that Geralt had taken note of the uncharacteristic quiet that befell the bard.

"You feeling alright?" He growled out, a low husky voice that was always so familiar to Jaskier's ears. The tiny barely perceptible notes of concern creasing into his words. Were it any other circumstance, Jaskier would have been impressed and fawned all over the extended olive branch between them.

Instead, he feigned shocked and carried a delighted note in his voice. His lips twisted into a coy smile that was directed completely on the Witcher. He strummed a few chords and grinned. "Aw, you really do care. I'm flattered. Truly. But alas, I have a problem I cannot overcome." 

Geralt furrowed his brows with increased concern, amber eyes narrowed on the spot as he stalled Roach's leisurely pace to an idle. "What is it?"

"I can't exactly find the right word to work around rhyming with Cockatrice. I mean, if I don't want the song to take on a raunchy meaning that is." Jaskier lamented, teasing the strings between the pads of his fingers as he considered this piece of information. It had been his last thoughts before he fell into the degrading woes of his own morbid end. It wasn't a particularly cheery topic to entertain but it was one he revisited far more frequently than he should be lately. It wasn't without prompting, as it were. His problems were resurfacing despite his every attempt to abandon them a long time ago in an entirely different life.

Jaskier didn't miss the way Geralt rolled his eyes and grumbled something under his breath before urging Roach onward. His concerns dismissed now as he resumed his normal grumpy demeanor that accompanied him anticipating their future funds in comparison to the long road between towns. It was a concern that most often kept the Witcher occupied while they traveled.

Coin wasn't a problem they had often since both Geralt and Jaskier worked in every town using their respective personalized skills and brought in a decent amount of revenue. But it was a variable that fluctuated in its abundance from town to town. Some days they have more than enough to splurge on little things like a new saddle for Roach, a sword for Geralt or fresh strings for Jaskier. Other days, they counted every copper as a blessing and critically considered their rations and supplies, even cutting their meals in half compared to their usual to stretch it further until the next job.

It wasn't the worst life Jaskier could imagine for himself. Before he met Geralt, his situation had actually been worse off. To the point he was borderline begging for leniency, for a bit of bread and a tankard of water. Trading songs for food, and working long hours for the simplest meal. Not even including the additional work he'd have to commit to if he wanted a roof over his head, and that didn't even guarantee it wasn't a barn he would be offered. It was humiliating at times, infuriating at others but it was the life he chose. Being able to stand by Geralt's side and travel with him over the years had been a vast improvement for many reasons and he was grateful for the honor and courtesy.

Time had slipped by as Jaskier threw himself into his music and tangled his thoughts around the lyrics that always seemed to dance just beyond his reach. For some farfetched reason today, he was having trouble seizing them into his clutches and weaving them through the notes that sprang so easily from his fingertips. It caused a near permanent frown to steady on his features, walking alongside Geralt on autopilot, with only the dark shape of Roach’s flank in his peripheral to guide him as he worked. He juggled his song book in his hands and scratched notes into the pages, grimacing when he smeared the edges on his palms.

_“Pathetic.”_

The voice rang loud in Jaskier’s ears but he knew well enough from past experience, that he was the only one that could hear it, truly. He frowned at the pages of his notes and tucked it into his pack, ensuring it was safe before adjusting the strap of his pack to rest comfortably on his side. He fixed the case for his lute and did roughly the same, ensuring it was slung crossways over his back. His fingers fumbled with the leather belt that stretched over his sternum, his cornflower blue eyes averted to stare at the dirt tracks left behind by Roach’s hooves.

He let himself hang further back, slowly losing ground behind Geralt until he was a comfortable distance away from the witcher. It was routine at this point, when that accursed voice sprung forth in his thoughts, bickering and berating him, he would withdraw. In the beginning, he thought he would be able to rummage over its narcissistic ramblings in peace, though he had clearly forgotten he was traveling with a witcher, one who reads body language the way Jaskier reads prose.

He had learned his lesson after Geralt had noticed the oddity of the bard and his sudden behavioral change. It had made for a very awkward few days after as Geralt side eyed him carefully as if Jaskier was an afflicted man showing signs of some ghastly transformation. He had even caught the lingering eyes that observed him while he slept, or at least feigned to. It was unnerving to say the least. Don’t get him wrong, having Geralt’s unerring attention on him would be a dream come true, but when that attention is honed into something that is so purely negative in Jaskier’s mind, it makes it unwelcome and cold.

_“Don’t be stingy Jaskier.”_

It purred into his ear, a vibration he swore he could feel curling down his neck. Hot breath against his skin that sent shivers racing down his spine. The cold fingers of dread reaching around his throat and applying a subtle amount of pressure. Jaskier knew it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. It never was. Even as he struggled with reality and threw himself into the flowery far more pleasant world he wished he could live in, where men were honorable and monsters were just fairytales for impressionable children, where he didn’t have a demon skulking about in his head demanding the worst of him at every waking breath of day.

“Leave me be.” He mumbled under his breath, a quiet note of discontent. He wasn’t aware how far Geralt’s keen sense of hearing extended to or if Roach’s busy motions would mask his voice from the monster slayer.

_“You’ve denied me for too long, Jaskier. One of these days, I will claim what is rightfully mine.”_ It taunted, a sharp click of the tongue that made Jaskier wince. He stroked the leather straps of his packs thoughtfully, feeling the warning and all its power behind it.

“I won’t allow it. This is my life, Julian. I refuse.” He asserted, the heat barely crept into his voice. It made him want to withdraw. Anger was Julian’s weapon, it was what made him strong. What gave him substance and slammed open the doors of control between them. When Jaskier had been foolish enough to succumb to his own anger, that dreaded voice would utilize the opportunity like an extended hand of greeting and storm ahead like an army through the gates of a great battle. 

Julian was why Jaskier had to flee Letterhove. He couldn’t stay there any longer, not after **he** had finished his demented schemes. **His** cruelty knew no bounds and spared no one. **His** anger was a weapon sharper than any sword and just as ruthless.

Jaskier had only wanted a simple life but the oppressive expectations pressuring him into following a simple code of conduct, one that resulted in bloodshed and tears, was something he couldn’t abide by. He reclaimed his control and stole away into the night. He wore his new name like a badge of honor, he sunk low among the rabble of every day peasantry, he skirted his way through the halls of nobility and he performed with the rawest parts of his soul bared to the world. He became fluent in the language of music and nobility alike. He read people the way scholars read books and old scrolls and he studied long and hard in Oxenfurt, succeeding in becoming a Master of the Seven Liberal Arts. An accomplishment he could wear as his own. A success that was solely his.

Julian couldn’t take that away from him, no matter how hard the other tried. Jaskier’s own strength grew over time and he flourished where Julian weakened steadily, dying in the shadows of his mind and the darkest shreds of his soul. Or, at least that’s what Jaskier had hoped. Maybe that makes him sound cruel in his own way, maybe that makes him a bad person equal in standing to the other man, yet Jaskier couldn’t agree to it. He refused to let that heathen ruin all he had worked so hard for, and every time Jaskier thought the other dead and gone, he would rear his ugly head with a malicious grin and remind the bard that he still existed.

_“You can’t kill me that easily Jaskier. I am you and you are me. Your life gives me strength. Your pain fuels my soul, like a greedy flame in a hayloft. Oh, how much pain you harbor. It’s a banquet at my fingertips.”_

Jaskier ignored the cold fist that clutched inside his chest, stuttering his breath. He shook his head in denial, ignoring those whispers as they curled across his brain and dragged against his skull like sharp nails across bone. It grated on his nerves and made him cringe, winding in on himself until his knuckles were white in their grip on the straps.

“Jaskier.”

The bard went as white as the freshly fallen snows of a Skellige winter when his name was called. He froze in place, eyes wide as his head snapped towards the sound. His gaze fell on Geralt’s concerned expression, made harder by the sharpened studious gaze that gave him a quick once over. Jaskier forced himself to relax when he realized the witcher was standing now, gripping Roach’s reins in one hand and standing within arm’s reach of Jaskier. He quickly realized he hadn’t even noticed Geralt when he stopped Roach, presumably to set up camp.

Jaskier cast a glance around, noting it was still considerably early for them to be stopped already but he assumed the witcher had good reason. “Uh, yes?” He asked dumbly, trying to salvage the morbid mood that had settled over him with the ominous silence that swept across his mind. It was eerie and uncomfortable after the looming presence of Julian and that pinching pressure in his skull that accompanied the man’s unwelcome visits. Pain curled behind his eyes as he blinked tiredly against the bright sunlight that bathed them in warm rays. It truly was a nice day out and Jaskier had only just realized this after they’d been traveling for a good portion of the afternoon.

“Are you alright?” Geralt’s voice was uncharacteristically soft. More so than usual when handling Jaskier in his delicate moments of high emotional stress, or distress. Depending on the situation. Those golden feline eyes scrutinized his every move, taking in every twitch of muscle, every frown, wrinkle and dip of his features. Where his gaze was fixed and the way he postured himself. Jaskier was an open book even on his good days and he assumed at the moment, he was a feast for the eyes but in a way that was absolutely disastrous.

“I’m fine.” Jaskier mumbled dismissively. “I believe I may have a headache is all. Nothing to fret over.” He gave a noncommittal wave of his hand and nodded towards the woods. “Camp then?”

Geralt regarded him quietly, a silent decision made known only by the twitch of his brow in the most subtle way that made it seem as if his expression hadn’t changed at all. Then he proceeded to lead Roach off the road and towards a clearing just beyond the bushes, past a couple pines. Jaskier could smell the familiar notes that hinted a river was nearby. That unforgettable stench of mud that he had grown so accustomed to from all the Drowner contracts Geralt gets in small villages. He could appreciate that it was a river though and not a swamp they were camping nearby. Last time he swore he got eaten within an inch of his life by the mosquitos alone. There wouldn’t have been enough of him left by morning for any monster to gorge itself on.

Setting up camp was a familiar and friendly routine of idle work that Jaskier enjoyed. It was monotonous and easy to carry out without much thought put into action. His thoughts could drift freely to whatever piece of music he was currently working on or whatever plans they anticipated for the next few days. Today, of all days, it was tedious and far more tiresome than it had any right to be. He supposed it had to do with the problem prickling at his thoughts like burrs in his socks. It was an unhealthy obsession, he knew that much but it was hard to disassociate when the pest at hand could whisper in his ear at any moment and coax needle sharp words into his thoughts, drawing blood across his vision.

Geralt checked the river nearby while Jaskier prepared their bed rolls and started gathering their things for a fire. The Witcher swept the banks with a critical eye, inspecting the water flow for signs of drowners or any variations of their brethren before returning to inform the bard that it was safe. The Witcher sparked the fire with a flash of igni and started to settle them in for the evening, letting Jaskier wander off to do his thing. Which typically meant gathering water to be boiled for drinking and cleaning while Geralt made them some supper.

Jaskier wasn't entirely enthusiastic about the riverbank but he was pleased to see it was a lot clearer than he anticipated. Not as murky or muddy like he thought it would be. After a minute or two, he could spot the dark shapes of small fish traveling along the bank, darting in and out of the weeds that gathered at the bottom. It was reassuring at least and meant a lower risk of running afoul any unsavory drowners hiding out of view.

He crouched by the water, flicking his fingers into it as he tested the depth. It was cool against his skin and welcoming after the extensive heat of day. Almost tempting enough to take a dip and relax.

_"Go ahead and give it a try."_ The voice rolled over his thoughts like a bloody shaelmaar. He hissed through clenched teeth and withdrew quickly, rocking back on his heels startled by the venomous urgings. Jaskier shook his head as his gaze reflected back at him in the water, a vicious smile curling soft lips into something inherently wrong and twisted.

"I thought I told you to leave me alone." Jaskier turned his head away from the reflection. His stomach lurched with sickness as _that voice_ taunted him. It was so similar to his own, and could easily be mistaken for his to the untrained ear. But it was perverse and malicious and vile. It was everything Jaskier was not, _could not_ be. It was horrid. Absolutely atrocious. Disgusting. And yet, it chilled him to his core and stole away his own voice. It silenced the air in his lungs and filled him with dread.

Petrified and helpless against the molesting of his thoughts, he was forced to succumb to the visceral beating it inflicted upon him. He was a victim to the other half. He was another target for **him.** Another helpless act of prey before a self-proclaimed predator who took far too much pride in showing their teeth.

_"You are mistaken. I cannot leave and should I be granted the opportunity, I dare say I don't want to."_ Jaskier could see the danger in that smile full of too sharp teeth and beady eyes. It was the visual he had built of his other half, to separate them from each other. To recognize the vile half when it reared its demented head. It had the secondary effect of making him feel just a bit more human. Being able to tell **him** from himself.

Jaskier couldn't quite recall when this vile demon was birthed into existence. He has struggled with it since the early years of his childhood, when his parents' demands became too much and he would recede into himself. **He** would take control and follow like the obedient pet. Playing pleasantries the way little girls play house, stringing everyone along until he had them well spun around his fingers like gullible little puppets.

Jaskier begged him to stop, when he stole the knife from the kitchen staff. He pleaded for mercy when **he** threatened the neighbor boy that had bullied Jaskier so ruthlessly the day prior. Jaskier, who was still nursing the black eye and swollen lip he received and could hardly open one eye even in the darkest parts of the manor.

**He** made that boy bleed, twisted that blade in his leg until he was crippled by the injury and threatened him to never speak a word. Jaskier recalls seeing him years later, trying to work the fields outside of Letterhove, one leg dragging behind him as he struggles along with the hoe chipping away at the tangled roots of the earth. The one time he tried to speak with the man, he had fled in terror and simply collapsed when his bum leg couldn't keep up.

Jaskier hated it. He hated the fear that Julian had soaked his life in. He isolated them, twisted people around his whims and violated them in the worst and most intimate of ways. He preyed on their fears and their aspirations. He utilized their trust and shattered it in the worst way. He painted a vicious picture of their life with the blood of those he harmed and hung the sullied canvas in the parlor for all to see. As far as Jaskier was concerned, it might as well be sewn with human flesh because everyone knew the monster Julian had become. Even his parents who had once been so proud of their son, now feared him and his power.

"I don't want you here, dammit. Leave me alone!" Jaskier blurted, banishing the cold hand that curled around his neck and squeezed. His own warm palm pressed against his skin as he squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to breath. To alleviate the fist that clenched around his lungs until it gave away all at once. Julian's dark presence slipped away to the back of his thoughts where they belonged. The reflection in the water was normal again, just the lingering terror that left traces on Jaskier's face. His eyes still wide and panicked, shoulders hunched defensively as he had started to furl into a ball.

"Jaskier?" Geralt's voice startled him and very nearly sent him toppling into the water when he jolted and his foot slipped on the muddy bank. He grunted, tipping back to land on his butt with a grumbled complaint. He tipped his head up to examine the familiar scowling face now staring down at him with perceptive amber eyes. Those slits had never seemed sharper than in this moment and Jaskier feared Geralt would see Julian in his eyes, trapped behind those pale blue waves like some ethereal prison. "What are you doing?"

"Enjoying the peace and quiet of the river. You don't happen to have a net still, do you? I saw some fish swimming around and thought that might make a decent meal." Jaskier assumed his usual rambling with all the ease of a well practiced performer. It was an act, his easy going nature and that carefree smile he directed towards the Witcher. He forced his shoulders to relax as he sagged against the earth, less rigid now. 

"You really should wear a bell around your neck, Geralt. All this kitty sneaking is going to be the death of me. I know you have particularly soft paws, but a few thumps in your approach would do wonders for my fragile heart." Jaskier lamented, a drawn out dramatic sigh as he postured his arm over his face in a _woe is me_ fashion.

Geralt didn't look at all amused with the bard's antics today. In fact, he looked even less convinced than normal. The quirk of his brow demanded answers and that small downward tilt of his mouth meant business. "You're supposed to get water, Jaskier. You've been gone for twenty minutes."

_Oh. Was it really that long?_ Jaskier was still grasping the fact that time was absent around him when Julian surfaced. What felt like only a few minutes of his miserable existence could stretch for hours and this wasn't the first time Geralt has had to come looking for the bard because he's disappeared somewhere he shouldn't and has found him in suspicious situations. In fact, the last time he had to come hunting for Jaskier, it was before sundown and he went looking for wood for their campfire. An entire hour had passed and Jaskier was kneeling in a clearing with a pile of sticks clutched in his arms so hard that they broke skin and he hadn't even realized it until he spotted the blood stains on his sleeves. He didn't even realize that it had become dark. 

Geralt was furious, though his anger was reserved and never expressed. Never around Jaskier. He may be displeased, grumpy or frustrated, but anger was never something bared to Jaskier. It was raw and violent and ugly and Geralt always had the courtesy of keeping it carefully sheathed and tucked out of view. His silence would say all he wished to and Jaskier would let that be his punishment for the evening. Relenting beneath its unbearable weight and giving in with a long suffering sigh of defeat.

"My apologies Geralt. I guess I got distracted." He gave a sheepish shrug and watched as the Witcher begrudgingly accepted the reasoning and took the bucket for their water. He walked to the edge of the bank, picked a spot that was sturdy under foot and collected the water. He waited for Jaskier to get up and dust himself off before they returned to camp in silence.

"I'd tell you to not let it happen again, but I know you well enough to expect repeat occurrences." Geralt grunted as they entered the clearing to their camp. His words were careful, mindful in their sharpness towards the bard. The concern was there, clear as day to Jaskier's ears. "Be more vigilant in your surroundings, Jaskier. I'm not the only thing prowling in these woods."

"But you are the most dangerous." Jaskier pointed out, a small jab at teasing that drew Geralt's studious gaze his direction. Jaskier smiled, mirth forming in the edges and reaching up to his eyes as he fell back into their easy going routine. He watched as Geralt shook his head and set the bucket aside for the moment, more focused on preparing their supper which looked like a few scrawny squirrels and a rabbit. Jaskier sighed, missing the flavorful meals of the taverns with roasted meat that didn't come from rodents.

They ate mostly in silence, picking the bones out of the rodents with careful fingers as Jaskier sucked the grease off the pad of his thumb. Geralt had quickly devoured his helping and resumed maintenance on his gear. He rubbed a cloth down the length of his steel sword, cleaning it until it shined in the fire light. Jaskier cleaned his fingers off and tossed the rest of the bones into the fire where they crackled in the embers. A quick wash of his hands before he resumed his own evening routine. There was enough light left for at least an hour which was more than enough time for him to finish this song that nagged him so incessantly.

The monotony that entailed the end of a long day of travel was something Jaskier often relished in. It was a simple cap to the night that was satisfying beyond any kind of reasoning that he could explain. Nostalgic almost, as he tried to rationalize the emotions it instilled in him. It was always there, no matter the day, and he could always rely on this laid before him. Geralt settled in by his bedroll as he worked on his gear. Roach grazing where she was tied to a tree, indifferent to their presence as she enjoyed the quiet. The crickets starting their songs and the expanse of stars twinkling above in the night sky as the sun tipped over the horizon and extinguished the last rays of day. The occasional stay in an Inn would alter their evenings but only slightly and only in a more livelier mood that Jaskier enjoyed immensely as he sings and performs for a crowd of drunkards in their revelry.

_“How heartwarming.”_ Julian’s voice purred into the silence that Jaskier had gotten so comfortable in. He frowned, concealing the gesture from the witcher as he focused that sour look on his song journal as if it was the sole target of his ire. 

_Back off._ Jaskier warned inwardly, his lips curled into a bitter scowl.

_“What’s mine is yours, Jaskier.”_ Julian chuckled darkly. Jaskier shivered as he felt those hands comb through his hair in a gentle sweep. He was well aware of what it looked like. Every touch was his own, an action stolen by Julian with his own body, forcing him to comply. He may not notice it himself but he knew from past experience.

His skin tingled with a steady hum of nerves as if his limbs had fallen asleep on him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as gooseflesh speckled his body. His fingers curled tightly into the mop of chestnut hair at the back of his skull, pinching and prickling along his scalp with a painful tug. He hissed beneath his breath and ducked his head to avoid the curious glance that Geralt flickered his direction. As far as the witcher was concerned, Jaskier was stressing over his song. It was not an unusual sight to behold. He ran into problems occasionally like most artists and performers. Finding an appropriate muse is only half the trouble. Executing the content is another beast all its own.

Sort of like Julian at the moment as he crooned sweetly in his ear. _“Do you think he knows?”_ It was a cold breath against his neck that tightened the muscles along his back with discomfort. _“Ooh, will he hurt us if we stab him? You get away with so much Jaskier, yet you never do anything_ **_fun_ ** _with it.”_

_Leave Geralt alone. Or I swear I’ll-_

_“You’ll what? Cry again? You do that alot. Nothing has changed. Not when we were children and not now. You hide it behind those carefully crafted smiles the way a mummer does a performance but behind the mask, you’re just a sad pathetic little boy that can’t even defend himself. You use_ **_words_ ** _and rely on everyone else to do the dirty work for you.”_

There was a moment of thoughtful silence before Julian added. _“Actually, I would say that was brilliant but you don’t do anything productive with that influence. You have a Witcher at the end of a rope but you never utilize the muscle. Have I taught you nothing?”_

_You’ve taught me enough, Julian. I’m sick of playing these games with you. Leave. Me. Be._ Jaskier nearly stood up as if to end the unspoken conversation and storm off. The gesture was abandoned halfway before he decided against it and rose to his feet completely. His journal tucked into his bag as he looked around. Geralt hummed questioningly in his direction which Jaskier responded apologetically for the disturbance. “Bathroom break.” He explained.

Geralt perked up more, glancing around the camp as he surveyed their surroundings for signs of danger. Seeming satisfied with his initial sweep he nodded. “Don’t take long. It’s getting dangerous.”

“Don’t fret.” Jaskier smiled at him but Geralt only met it with a scowl.

“Don’t go far, Jaskier. I mean it.” The bard waved over his shoulder as he headed out of the camp, walking parallel to the river bank.

The night air was cool against his skin, tickling over his face in playful little swirls that swept at his bangs and made them fall into his eyes. He huffed, blowing them out of the way as he wandered. He didn't really need to use the bathroom but he might as well utilize the moment while he had it. If he ran off again later for the same excuse, Geralt would get suspicious for certain. There are just some things that he can't get around a Witcher and human biological routines are sadly one of the weirdly specific things that the monster slayer picks up on. It was disturbing at times but as Geralt explained it, it was purely a part of his training in justifying natural behavior. The way one reads a monster or a man lying to his face about payment. It's an unfortunate habit of his lifestyle that he has no control over. His brain is just wired that way from the mutations.

Hell, he even knew _Roach's_ habits down to the minute. The routine in all living creatures was the most amusing and most disappointing fact of life. That existence does not make sense without repetition. It encourages a feeling of safety that many creatures crave. From the smallest rabbit to the biggest monster to the simplest humans. Routine is safe and comfortable. Even Jaskier could appreciate the routine in their days.

He finished up his private business and lingered near the tree he'd chosen, letting his thoughts drift while he buttoned his trousers shut. His brows furrowed as he scanned the darkness, catching the outline of the river bank and the murky grey water. His attention shifted when he heard the crack of a branch in the woods adjacent to him, a jolt of concern threatening him with shadowy specters projected by his own imagination. It was enough to send him back towards the safety of camp and the warm glow of the fire that illuminated the clearing.

The evening passed by rather uneventfully as Geralt decided to turn in for the night. He observed the bard a little longer before turning over so his back was towards him. The Witcher left the campfire going, both for warmth and light for Jaskier, even throwing a bit more kindling in it to make it bigger. Jaskier appreciated the thought as he scribbled hastily in his journal. A new page had been turned away from the song he had been working on, seemingly forgotten now as he focused on something far more urgent.

Jaskier wrote until his utensil was nearly down to a nub and his fingers ached, bruised from the force of the pressure he put into it as each word materialized onto the pages. Each sentence told a story that was unique. A tale about heroics that didn't involve a sword or any great battle or any recognizable deeds of chivalry and bravery. This tale was considerably mundane compared to Geralt's epics but Jaskier supposed the Witcher may still be able to appreciate it nonetheless. For it was a story that was true and personal to the bard, for it was his own story. One without an ending but still just as important to know.

There are no grande lessons to be learned or amazing feats to be tested and immortalized. Jaskier doubted he was even considered hero material in the end when he made up his mind. He signed his name, both of them, at the end of the story with an apology specifically for the noble and fair Witcher. This was both his explanation and his greatest regret.

"I'm sorry I could not give you the song you deserve the most. You were always the hero in my heart, Geralt." His words were a broken whisper as he placed his journal and his lute beside the witcher's pack. He moved carefully through their camp. The fire was nearly gone by now, Jaskier's eyes stung with weariness and his hands ached from the effort but he was prepared nonetheless. He forced his feet to walk, as the milky light of the moon shone a path through the woods, burning away the shadows that threatened to discourage his decision.

_"What are you planning, Jaskier?"_ Julian called, a rotten sneer twisting his lips into something repulsive. Jaskier didn't linger on it much. All of his problems would be solved soon enough, he just had to keep moving.

His determination must have been a red flag in **his** mind because, in the next moment he felt his feet stop. A hand pressed firmly against his throat in a threatening manner as Julian snarled. _"What are you doing?"_ His eyes were wild, turned silvery in the moonlight like liquid steel. His skin washed out and pale against the turquoise doublet they wore.

Jaskier pulled a grimace and swatted the hand away in dismissal, skirting around Julian's fury. "I'm doing what I didn't have the courage to when we were children, Julian."

_"Jaskier, stop!"_

"This is _my_ decision, Julian. Fuck off."

_"This is my body too you bastard!"_ It was venomous as Jaskier trudged on, every step felt like lead weights were attached to his feet. It was a fight in and of itself. His muscles twitched and strained to fend off the other's will. Jaskier ground his teeth as he forced himself past Julian's stubbornness. 

"I warned you, Julian. I _warned you_ but you never listened." Jaskier spit out at the other. "You laughed and mocked me. You denied me constantly. Well, now who's the one laughing?"

_"Jaskier! Reconsider what you're doing."_ Julian pleaded, forcing them both to their knees in a sudden unceremonious drop to the muddy earth. Jaskier groaned when his leg cracked painfully into a stone. His hand fell to clutch at the spot, blood beading up and staining the delicate ruined fabric of his trousers.

"Go the fuck away." Jaskier growled, curling his fingers into the fabric. Julian refused to budge, seizing the spark of anger that rose within Jaskier and claiming it as his own.

_"I will not let you throw everything we have away you selfish condescending prick!"_ Julian blurted angrily, shoving hard into Jaskier's chest, forcing him to fall back in his efforts to regain control. _"I will not be denied again!"_

"Irony." Jaskier spat. He took a ragged breath in through his mouth and exhaled, forcing himself back to his feet and breaking Julian's hold as his anger receded back to spiteful determination. "I have made my peace and I suggest you start with yours now." He warned, trudging through the thicket and bushes that barred his path along the river bank. His eyes continued their search, vigilant for familiar signs along the muck. He smelled it before he saw it, that putrid gaseous fishy stench that permeated areas where Drowners prowl and hunt.

_"I'm sorry!"_ Julian screamed, his voice rising in Jaskier's throat. _"I'm sorry for everything. Jaskier, please!"_ He begged, forcing them back onto their knees as he sagged. His body bone weary and head hung. Tears sprung to the corners of his eyes as Julian folded his hands before him as if asking the Gods for their clemency. _"I don't want to die, Jaskier. Don't let me die."_

Jaskier was conflicted. His confidence from earlier wavered as he considered the sincerity that Julian presented to him. He couldn't deny the hot tears that fell down his cheeks like luke warm rain in the middle of a dogged summer day. His breath caught in his throat as a rough ball of emotion attempted to choke him. Julian's hard features softened into something genuinely raw and vulnerable. His fingers curled into his hair as he curled in on himself and cried. A wicked and ugly wail that belted from his chest. Every suffering breath was a struggle as his throat constricted painfully. His lip quivered as he pleaded to his other half.

_"Jaskier- please…._ " The bard wanted to give in. By the gods, he wished he could believe it and trust Julian. He _wanted_ it to be true, so much that it physically hurt. But Julian has played this trick on too many people for Jaskier to find real sincerity in it.

"I'm sorry Julian, but this way we both can be free." His words were soft, a whisper of promise as Jaskier shoved himself to his feet, through his blurry vision and the weakness that made his limbs tremble under the force, he could see the water. Could smell the rot of drowners and see their dark shapes swimming below the placid surface.

"Jaskier no!" The witcher's scream barely broke through the screech of the drowners as they growled and welcomed the bard with open eager arms as he splashed into the cold uncaring depths of the river. Jaskier's last vision was Geralt's face coming in spurts of clarity before it was swallowed up by the murky darkness of the water and he was embraced in a cocoon of pain and the roar of death swelling around him.

**Author's Note:**

> I might do a part 2 as either a follow up from Geralt's perspective or an alternate ending where Geralt does save Jaskier in time. It will depend on how well this goes since I I am juggling multiple other fics at once.


End file.
